


Diversification

by were_lemur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abortion, Contraceptive Sabotage, Discussion of Abortion, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mark of Cain, Original Character Death(s), POV Crowley, Past Relationship(s), Poverty, Reproductive Coercion, Season/Series 10, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 19:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7281463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_lemur/pseuds/were_lemur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley protects his investments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diversification

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to my lovely beta, ereynolds.

Occupied meat, Crowley thinks, really isn't worth the annoyance.

The woman he's wearing is having a freak-out in the back of his mind, and it's irritating him to no end. But the clinic in Fargo -- the only one in North Dakota that performs abortions -- is on lockdown, and there are cameras everywhere; there is no way a cloud of red smoke would go unnoticed. So he has no choice but to spend the day in the top-heavy body of Clarice Wells. Fortunately her job is largely undemanding; she spends her days rubber-stamping the state-mandated counseling sessions.

This is the sort of thing Crowley should be able to delegate, except there is no one in Hell that he would actually trust with this kind of sales job. Getting people to sign away something they believe has no value in exchange for what they desperately want; that's easy-peasy. Convincing someone to act against what they know is their best interest is a little trickier. He suspects that even his better sales people would lay it on too thick.

Crowley downloads the script from Clarice's memory, and spends the next two hours following it. The women have all made up their minds, everybody knows that this is just a hoop they have to jump through; he hands out the materials and has the women initial and sign and tells them to confirm their appointments at the front desk.

It's Clarice's 10:30 that he's been waiting for.

"Hello," he makes a show of looking down at the paperwork. "Anne-Marie."

It's been less than two months since he last saw her, but she looks like she's aged years. She's lost weight, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

She drops into the seat. "No offense, but can we get this over with? It's a four-hour drive back to Beaulah, assuming I don't hit traffic, and my shift starts at three. I can't afford to be late; I need this job."

"The counseling is mandatory."

She gives him a no-shit look. "So counsel me. Tell me that I'm a horrible person for doing this."

"Do _you_ think you're a horrible person?"

"I think I'm a person with no good options."

In the back of his mind, Clarice has started flipping out again. He imagines her with a gag, which shuts her up for the moment.

"There are always options."

"And I'm taking this one."

"How does the father feel?"

"He's not in the picture." She lets out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter. "Anyway, I don't think he's the family type."

And this was _exactly_ why Crowley was glad he'd done this himself. Most of his subordinates would have laughed at that characterization of Dean Winchester, which would have offended her and blown the game right there. He merely gives her a gentle smile.

"If you've made up your mind -- if you're absolutely certain that this is the best option for you -- "

"We're not talking about 'best'," she says. "We're down to 'least bad'. I work in a roadhouse. I can't just leave a baby in the back room. So what's left?" Her hand settles on her belly for a moment. She recognizes it for the protective gesture it is and drops her hand to the side.

Crowley doesn't comment on it, just schools his meat's features into an expression of compassion and lets the silence work on her.

"I know I'm going to regret it," she says at last. "I know I'm going to have a ghost following me around the rest of my life. But I'm the mom. I have to protect my kid. And this is the only way I can save it from -- " _From the kind of life I've had_ hangs unspoken in the air between them.

"Have you considered adoption?" That would be just as good for Crowley's purposes, maybe better; less chance that Dean would stumble across his little project before he was ready. And it's not as if he won't be able to prove the child's paternity even without Anne-Marie there to vouch for it.

"I'm barely hanging on to my job as it is. As soon as Daryl found out I was pregnant, I'd be out. The law doesn't matter if you don't have money for a lawyer, and freezing to death the first time a blizzard hits because I ended up living in my car isn't exactly good prenatal care." She straightens, and looks Crowley in the eyes. "If you're asking, would I make the same decision if I won the lottery? No, I wouldn't. But that's a pipe dream. And there's no drawing tonight, anyway."

Once upon a time, before the Winchesters, before he'd become King of Hell, his line would have been _what if I told you I could give you that winning lottery ticket, and you wouldn't have to pay anything for ten years?_ But Anne-Marie's paltry soul is small potatoes compared to the little bundle of free-range Winchester she's carrying around inside her.

Unlike the Winchesters, he's playing the long game.

He's not going to convince her now, but that was never the purpose of this conversation. He has the information he needs; he knows what pitch to use, later. He says "if you've made up your mind" and gives her the misinformation the state requires. When he talks about the alleged risks to future fertility, she laughs and says "if only" but for the rest she is silent unless he prompts her for a required response. She initials, she signs, they stand to shake hands and he slips a tracking coin into her purse, and she heads out to confirm her appointment for the following morning.

While he waits for the next client he listens in on Clarice. Unfortunately -- for her -- she's been paying attention.

_What does a demon want with a baby, oh Jesus, I need to talk to my pastor_ and she's sealed her fate. He gags her again, and turns his gaze to the next sad sack across his desk. He barely registers any of the other women, and finally, it's time to take Clarice's body home to where his own familiar meatsuit is waiting.

He smokes out and back into his own meat, and while Clarice is still reorienting herself, taps a finger to the side of her head. Inside her skull, an aneurysm that should have been stable for the next thirty years rips open, spilling blood into her skull. She clutches her head and takes two steps toward the phone before collapsing.

Within minutes, the intracranial pressure depresses her respiratory system to fatal levels. No fuss, no muss, nothing at all to interest any hunter who might be in the market for a case.

Crowley teleports to Hell, and spends a few hours dealing with trivia. Eventually he retreats to the privacy of his chambers, pulls out his phone, dials up an app that's not available on any commercial site, and listens to the record of the feed from the tracking coin while he sorts through the stack of paperwork. I's mostly just engine noise broken by sniffles, which is surprisingly soothing. But about three hours in Anne-Marie breaks her silence.

"I'm sorry, baby." He can hear the tears in her voice. "I wish I had a better option. But I can't take you to work. I won't leave you with a neighbor and hope they're not too high to remember to feed you or change you. So what's left? Go home to my mom, and hope she won't smack you around too often? Send you to bed hungry because there's more month than money, and listen to you cry when the other kids make fun of you because everything you own once belonged to someone else?

"I can't go to your dad. Even if I had any idea how to find him, he's not -- "

She breaks off there, sobbing in earnest, and he double-checks the app to make sure she hasn't ruined his plans by running off the road. But eventually she goes back to quietly sniffling, and he finishes the stack of trivia just in time for one of his demons to knock on his door with more paperwork.

He returns to Beaulah just after eleven-thirty and borrows a nondescript sedan from one of the locals. Then he drives to the Black Spur. He parks in the far end of the parking lot; on the way to the entrance, he passes Anne-Marie's battered green hatchback. With a thought, he disables the electrical system.

Karaoke night is in full swing, and for a moment he lingers by the entrance, letting himself imagine that Dean will be up on stage, strutting his stuff to the dismay of the locals, or maybe leaning against the bar. But he hardens his resolve and heads inside. It doesn't take long for Anne-Marie to spot him.

"If you're looking for Dean, you're out of luck." She's been on her feet for most of a shift, now. She looks even more exhausted than she did in Fargo, and she's slightly green, as if the food she's serving is making her apparently misnamed morning sickness worse. 

"You look horrible," he says, and she laughs, ruefully.

"Can I get you a table? For old times' sake."

He makes a show of looking around. "Why not," he says. "I'm not going to find Dean tonight, and I'm sick of my own company."

To justify his occupation, he orders a burger and fries and what passes for beer in America. When nobody is looking, he makes the food vanish into the ether.

After an hour and a half of tedium, Last Call puts the night out of its misery. The lonely look at the nearest member of the appropriate gender and decide to lower their standards, the drunks shuffle out alone, and he makes sure to catch Anne-Marie's eye as he heads toward the door. She drops her gaze, though, and turns to wiping down tables.

It takes forty-seven minutes for them to finish cleaning up. Crowley spends the time in his car, answering e-mails. If he'd realized being King of Hell was going to be so tedious -- well, he'd still have clawed his way to the top, because it's better to be the King than to have someone else reigning over him.

He watches as Anne-Marie comes out and heads toward her ancient hatchback. He's out of his borrowed car and heading toward her as she slips inside and turns the key. When there is no response, she tries again, and then pounds her fists against the steering wheel.

By the time he gets to her, she's out of the car and aiming vicious kicks at the tire and cursing. She breaks off when she sees Crowley, and swipes at the tears in her eyes.

"You look like you're having car trouble. Can I give you a ride?"

"You going to Fargo?"

"What's in Fargo?" he asks, but then waves his own question off. Pulls out his cell phone. "I have triple A."

In the dim light, she looks like she's about to burst into tears. He turns his back to her while he makes the call; gives her a minute to pull herself together. "The tow truck will be here in half an hour. If they can't fix your car, I'll give you a ride into Fargo. In the meantime, why don't we wait in my car. It's warmer. And I wanted to talk to you anyway."  
.  
"If it's about Dean, I haven't seen him or heard from him since the night -- " She presses her lips together, shakes her head. But she goes with Crowley to his car; it's barely autumn, but this late at night there's a chill in the air. He turns on the engine, runs the heat. Snaps on the light so he can look at her. 

"I wasn't joking earlier. You do look, as Dean would say, like hammered crap."

"Long shift."

"I've seen you after a long shift," he says, and narrows his eyes. "You're sick. No. Not sick. Oh my god, Dean's left you up the duff."

"If that's a classy English way of saying he knocked me up, then yeah." She looks at him for a long moment, and then makes the decision to trust him. "That's why I have to get to Fargo tomorrow morning. I have an appointment at the clinic to have it taken care of."

"I'm sorry. Dean has -- " He scrubs his hand across his face, the picture of a long-suffering friend. "He's been spiraling downward for a while. We haven't spoken in weeks. I'm sorry that he's caused you such unpleasantness."

"I'm a grown-up. I know condoms can fail."

Especially, Crowley thinks, when there's a hex bag designed to defeat any conventional contraceptive measures in the immediate vicinity.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'd offer to pass him the news if I ever do find him, but I doubt he would be of much help."

Actually, he's certain that if Dean knew, he would do the right thing: wire her money to cover the full cost of the abortion, and probably throw in enough for a couple nights in a decent hotel. In his current state of mind, he'd consider it a job well done; a potential monster put down.

He wouldn't necessarily be wrong. Crowley isn't sure exactly what Anne-Marie is carrying; he doesn't think it's likely that the baby will be born with black eyes (although he'll have to plan for that contingency) but he can't begin to guess at the possible knock-on effects from being fathered by a Knight of Hell, a demon bearing the Mark of Cain.

But even if there are no effects at all, the investment will still pay off. A bog-standard human child would have its uses as well. For instance, he imagines Dean would go to great lengths to keep his own son or daughter from being ripped apart by hellhounds.

But first he has to get the child born. And though it would be easiest to scoop Anne-Marie up and stow her away somewhere in Hell until she gives birth, he doesn't trust his people not to give up the information to the Winchesters, either for gain or under interrogation. Abduction is his last resort.

"I knew it was a long shot, finding Dean here," he says. "But he seemed to care for you. Right now, though, I don't know if he cares about anyone. Including himself."

Anne-Marie studies her fingernails. "Did you have a fight, too?"

"Lately, he's been an argument looking for an excuse to happen. Yes, we had a fight. And I'm more than inclined to let him storm out of my life."

"But here you are."

"Overdeveloped sense of fair play," he says. "And investment we made paid off handsomely. When I tried to set up a meet with Dean, to give him his share, he told me where I could shove the money. He doesn't want anything from me, but of course I couldn't keep it. I was hoping to find him just long enough to shove the cashier's check into his hand and then walk away. He can rip it up, throw it away, burn it if he likes, but it'll no longer be my bloody obligation." He rubs his face. "I'm sorry, this is rude of me, you don't need to be hearing about how I'm trying and failing to give away money."

"No, it's -- it's fine." Her hand grazes her stomach for a moment.

He looks at her. "Wait a bloody minute. It's Dean's, right, you're sure of it?"

"Yes, jackass!"

"You could be the solution to, well, not _all_ my problems. But certainly this one. You're the mother of Dean's child!"

"For the next nine and a half hours. Give or take."

"Give you the money, it's giving it to Dean's heir."

"Crowley. There's not going to be any heir." "I'm. Having. An. Abortion."

"That's tomorrow. Tonight, Dean's got an heir. Here." He drags out the check and shoves it into her hands.

She looks down at it. Does a double-take "That's a lot of zeroes."

He thought very carefully about how much to give her. Too much, and she won't believe it, or she'll believe it's the result of a criminal enterprise. It's not lottery-win money, it's not never-work-again money, but it's enough that if she's careful, she won't have to work until the kid is in kindergarten. 

It's a chance. One that he knows she'll be desperate for. But she still manages to make herself hold it out to him.

"Crowley, I can't accept this."

The tow truck arriving gives him the perfect excuse to disengage. They stand around for a little while in the chilly air, while the driver looks at the car. Finally he gives a triumphant a-ha and pulls out a wire brush.

"The contacts on your battery are corroded. Here." He brushes at them and wipes stuff away, then hooks the battery back up. "Try it now, Miss."

She turns the key, and the engine roars into life.

"Thank you so much," she says, and the driver tugs at the brim of his cap, smiling bashfully. Finally, though, he goes on his way, and once again Anne-Marie holds out the check.

"I meant it," Crowley says. "You should keep that; cash it or not, it'll be a load off my mind." He smiles. "Go buy yourself a new car."

"What if Dean changes his mind? Says he wants the money?"

"I'll tell him I spent it on strippers and booze in his honor. He did tell me he didn't want it, and I got that on tape."

She gives him a long, considering look, and then folds the check and slips it into her wallet. "Thank you, Crowley."

"You're very welcome." He looks at her. "It's probably a good thing you're going to the clinic in the morning. Otherwise I'd have to worry about you naming it after me."

She laughs, and says, "don't worry, I promise I won't!" and maybe he should give another thought to kicking human blood, because for a moment the relief in her eyes overwhelms him.

He shoves that weak part of himself down as far as he can. "You take care of yourself," he tells Anne-Marie, and watches her get into the car, heading home. Then he heads back to his own stolen car, warmed by the satisfaction of a job well done.

He's invested a lot in Dean Winchester over the years, and one way or another, this child will diversify that portfolio considerably.


End file.
